The Burglar's Dog Stag & Hen Party Special

Come near me with the fucking cellophane and I'll bite your scabby dicks off.

the ball and chain:
original and amusing

People from all over the nation send us e-mails. They say, "Dear The Burglar's Dog. We are having a stag weekend and plan to visit your town like a biblical plague of locusts, destroy it, and then move on, but we're much too lazy to read all the words that you have so lovingly written on your site. Please tell us everything we need to know about your city so that we can ignore what you say, and busy ourselves with shrink-wrapping our naked mate to a lamppost and punching passers-by out cold. Oh, and any chance you could pull the birds for us too, and maybe get them moist since we're too bloody stupid and ugly?" It’s not just thick blokes, either: myriad are the times we’ve been promised, "Hee hee hee! We’ll buy you a pint! Thanks hun!" by giggling, witless slappers for telling them where they can meet "lush lads" who are just as dim as they are.

And why not? Party organisers have so much on their plates with sorting out Elvis costumes, devil’s horns and comedy marital aids that there’s very little time left to work out where the hell they’re actually going to go. But it is with a gladsome heart that we reply to our correspondents - time and time again - with itineraries and facts, even though there’s zero chance of them being followed. Happy-to-help-have-a-nice-day-please-call-again, that’s us. After all, stag and hen nights provide a welcome boost to our city’s economy, giving many, many hours overtime to street cleaners, emergency glaziers and community police. And where would our ethnic restaurant and takeaway proprietors be without their weekly helping of ribald racism from pissed-up, kilt-wearing tourists?

Oh, we really love seeing stags and hens doing their stuff, we do. Don't know about you, but every time we see one of those smashing groups of people, we always think, "Hmm. They look like an affable bunch. Think I'll go and talk to them and see what they've got to say about life." Never will you hear these words pass our lips: "Oh for fuck's sake, not another bunch of tedious cunts. Who would marry that glakey fucker, like? Hope they burn the twat alive." And those racy little nametags on hen nights! They crease us up! Let’s hear it for Anorexic Angie, Burdened-with-six-kids-by-seven-fathers Brenda, Cum-on-my-curtains Caroline, Desperate-to-diet Debs, Egotistical Oestrogen-deprived Evonne, Fuck-me-in-the-lavatory-I’m-not-getting-it-at-home Fiona, Gargantuan-Gunted Glenda...we love ‘em to bits, every last pig-squealing one of 'em.

But hey, just because we’re honest, upstanding, respectful local citizens, doesn’t mean that they can’t come to our city and let their hair down a little. There’s no law against interlopers acting like complete tits, wearing stupid outfits and vomiting in our roads. Yet. And let’s not forget all those shitty little print-Ur-own t-shirt merchants whose very livelihoods are dependent on slapping fuzzy, semi-naked photos of holiday drunkards on ill-fitting, pauper-weight garments for such glamorous occasions. Imagine their fall in turnover if the words "Billy Bollocks On Tour 2004" were never again seen - in fucking Comic Sans font - in the city’s streets, bars and holding cells. Hats off to these champions of industry: they’re what makes Britain Great.

So, finally, once and for all, the Burglar’s Dog aims to give the lowdown on the stag and hen scene in Newcastle. We’ll tell you the places to go to keep out of our faces, the pubs that have a devastation-repair kitty factored into their operating budgets, and the bars where, clearly, Sodom and Gomorrah still thrive. Plus, we’ll tell you what's HOT and what's NOT, using the very latest research from our terminally angry reporters.


STYLE AND DEPORTMENT   


Acting in the correct manner is important to you, isn’t it? You want to be seen wearing only the latest trends, don’t you? After all, you wouldn’t want to stick out like a sore thumb and have people think that you’re an unruly, drunken, manners-of-a-sow travesty of human flesh, would you? These are the things that are currently - and will be forever thus - hot and not in the stag and hen party world. Get them right and we might not kill you; get them wrong and you’ll be nailed to a plank and floated up the Tyne.

HOT
  • Decorum
  • Warm hands of friendship
  • Keeping the fuck out of our sight
  • What the Irish call "the craic"

  • Respect for the moral standards of the local population
  • Only laughing at things that are actually amusing
  • Sensible shoes
  • Dignity
  • Checking in at the hotel before you start drinking
  • The ability to say "Why aye, man" without sounding Welsh or Pakistani
  • Realising you’re an absolute cunt and a total pain in the arsehole
...and NOT
  • Bacchanalia
  • Unsolicited displays of genitalia
  • Being in any way visible
  • Screaming like a brutally-buggered baboon within our collective earshot
  • Banging the town bike over the bins beside the Blackie Boy
  • Cackling at your own "jokes"

  • Ball and chain combinations
  • Drag
  • Leaving your suitcases all over the floor in O’Neills
  • Being Scottish. Or Cockney. Or a country bumpkin.
  • Thinking you’re in any way cool, funny or original



WHERE TO DRINK   


When it comes to the matter of ideal drinking circuits, there is but one question to ask yourself: Do you want to hang around with fuckwits, or do you want to hang around with fuckwits wearing Burberry hats? Newcastle has two main areas catering to the likes of you: The Bigg Market (hats on), home of the football hooligan, the underage drinker and the educationally subnormal; and The Quayside (hats off), where the clothes are more expensive, the "flap" a little more "class", but the IQ no higher. These are the places to be seen in your stupid Mickey Mouse ears or your spew-spattered gorilla suit. These are the places where anything goes and where dignity is just a shit song by Deacon Blue on Century FM’s 80s Hour. And these are the places where we absolutely insist you go.

Sure, there are other neighbourhoods in town, but you, really, really don’t want to go to them. They’re full of po-faced miseries like us, who have ambitions no loftier than a nice few pints and decent conversation, and would never dare to scale the dizzy heights of drunken indecent exposure or pizza-clutching doorway fellatio. Some people just don’t know what "fun" is. Not like you crazy kids.

Whichever of our carefully selected locales interests you, these are the bars we recommend: (You could try clicking these links: they might tell you things you find useful). All of these pubs guarantee a surly, grudging welcome, queues a mile long and beer within a nanosecond of its sell-by date. They’re loud, they’re expensive, and they’re far and away the fightingest bars in the Northern Hemisphere. Choose wisely.

Bigg Market
The Quayside
You could also try The Gate "complex" just up the hill from the Bigg Market: click this link to read what we had to say about that monstrosity when it first looked more than half-finished. If you fancy a fight with a doorman then hurry yourself along there post-haste.

And for last orders? Let’s be honest here: like salmon returning to their native rivers to breed, so do party "goers" head inexorably for Buffalo Joe’s on the Gateshead side of the Swing Bridge looking for love, friendship, and maybe tops and fingers. Fact: you will end up there. Fact: you will buy a fucking glittery cowboy hat. Fact: we will hate you, unreservedly.



WHERE TO STAY   


All the words in bold in this section are links to the hotels’ websites, by the way: you’d best click them. And they were all tested thoroughly when we wrote this: don't kick off with us if they're not working later.


What are we, like: the frigging tourist board? How should we know? Why in the name of Jaheseus Christ would we pay good money to stay in a hotel when we live less than three miles away from the city centre? If it’s any help, we hear that the Jury’s Inn is quite popular with "visiting groups". They apparently have a bit of a downer on loose morals, though: a mutual friend of ours was barred from taking his new lady friend to his room simply because she was an obvious last-orders-on-the-dancefloor case. Yeah, go on; try the Jury’s. And make sure you go for a few pints in one of the numerous bars between there and the city centre, too. Those customers with tight t-shirts and handlebar ‘taches are guaranteed to give you the warmest of welcomes, especially if you start spouting your inbred homophobic bollocks the minute you walk through the door.

Or, you could try the Holiday Inn in the centre of town: it’s not too far to crawl back to your room from the clubs with a shattered pint pot sticking out of your neck. And the area around it already stinks to high heaven of piss and puke, so you need have no qualms about making it worse with your appalling conduct.

Where else is there? Oh aye, there’s the Malmaison and the Copthorne at opposite ends of the Quayside, if you’re feeling particularly flushed, and the Premier Lodge in the middle, across the river from that big slugalike building. Being as it is the home to the dreadful Exchange bar, perish the thought that you should wreck it with gleeful abandon. And, if they ever finish building the fucker, you could always try the Hilton on the Gateshead side of the Tyne; just don’t try booking it before 2012 or you’ll be a tad disappointed.

Other than those, there's also the Royal Station Hotel next to the, uh, station, and the Quality Hotel off the top of the Bigg Market, though as we can't find a decent link for that you'll have to look it up yourself. Don't make us do everything for you.

No matter which friendly establishment you choose as your resting place, we’re sure that you’ll find the utmost comfort in which to shave each others eyebrows off and take “amusing” photos of the saggy genitals of the first of the group to pass out. Remember: it’s especially hilarious if you chuck one of your mates, bollock-naked, into the corridor and let them holler vengeful threats into the wee small hours. Other guests will shake you firmly by the hand in the morning after hearing such wizard japes. Just before kicking your teeth in.

We hope you have found our guide to stag and hen parties in Newcastle upon Tyne useful. If you have any further queries, please do not hesitate to ask some other fucker before you darken our in-box again. And, as a friendly word of warning, we would like to make this crystal clear:

If you have used the word "doo" instead of "do" on any promotional literature, e-mail, or fckng sms txt msg for your event, we will hunt you down with dogs, and tar and feather each and every one of your party, their families, friends and nodding acquaintances. And then we’ll start getting really fucking angry.

Finally, we wish the lucky couple all the very best for their impending nuptials. We’ll give it six months before she starts banging the window cleaner.



















There's no more down here. We did you 2000 words, man. What else do you want from us, for fuck's sake?